The Pool Boy Age Gap MILF erotica #4
“I want your cock in my mouth. I want your mouth on my pussy. I do not want you to fuck me yet. I will tell you when that changes.”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
Mara reached back and unzipped the dress herself.
It dropped to her waist, then her hips, then the floor.
Forty-one years old, naked in the utility room with the boy who skimmed her pool, and the air hit every place the dress had hidden.
Heavy tits, nipples already tight. Soft stomach.
The dark hair she kept trimmed because she liked the look of it, not because anyone had asked.
She was wet. She had been wet since she sent the text.
She went to her knees on the towel she had put down before he arrived.
The concrete bit through the terry anyway.
She did not care. She popped the button on his shorts, dragged the zipper, and freed him with both hands.
Thick. Hot. Already hard from the drive.
She smelled soap and skin and a little of the pool that never left him.
She wrapped her fingers around the base and looked up.
“This is me asking,” she said. “Put your hand in my hair if you want. Don’t shove. I’ll take what I can.”
“You sure?”
“Twice is enough. Yes.”
She licked the underside first, slow, tasting salt.
Then she took him into her mouth and the sound he made went straight to her clit.
Soft heat, stretch at the corners of her lips, the clean bitter slide when she went deeper.
She hollowed her cheeks and worked him with her fist where her mouth could not reach.
Spit gathered and ran. She let it. Filthy on purpose.
His fingers slid into her hair and rested there, shaking, not pushing.
Mara sucked him like she had been thinking about it since the lounge chair.
Tongue flat. A little scrape of teeth she apologized for with a hum.
When she took him farther and her throat fluttered he swore under his breath and his hips stuttered and stopped because she had told him not to shove.
Eyes watering. Chin wet. She pulled off with a thread of spit still connecting her lower lip to the head of his cock and stroked him while she breathed.
“You last,” she said, wrecked already. “That’s not a question.”
“I last.”
She went back down until her nose touched his stomach. Gag, recover, spit on him, use it. The pump covered the worst of the sounds. She could feel how tight he was getting and she eased off before he had to make her, because today was not about finishing him.
“Washer,” she said, standing on unsteady legs. “I want to sit. I want your face between my thighs.”
He lifted her. Hands under her ass, her wetness smearing his stomach as he set her on the machine. The lid was cool. She planted her heels on the edge and opened her knees. No shy angle. He could see all of it: swollen, shiny, her clit standing up, the inner lips dark with blood.
Wes looked at her like the job had ended and something else had started.
“Ask,” she said.
“Can I eat your pussy.”
“Yes. Don’t stop when I get loud. The pump is loud enough.”
He dragged her to the edge by her hips and put his mouth on her.
Mara’s head went back into the wall. Heat.
Wet. The flat of his tongue up through her folds and then a focused, filthy attention on her clit that made her thighs jump.
He licked her like he had thought about it in the truck.
No teasing for long. He sealed his mouth over her and sucked and she grabbed the back of his head with both hands.
Taste of her own want in the air. Sound of it, slick and shameless, under the pump.
His nose pressed into her. Stubble scraping the soft inside of one thigh.
She smelled detergent from the towels and sex and the chlorine in his hair.
She watched his jaw work between her legs and the sight alone pulled a noise out of her she did not try to pretty up.
“There. Right there. Don’t you dare be polite.”
He wasn’t. He licked into her, tongue fucking the entrance he was not allowed to fill, then back to her clit in hard, steady strokes.
One of his hands held her open with his thumb.
The other gripped her ass hard enough to bruise.
Mara rolled against his face and came the first time with her heel kicking the washer and his name broken in half.
He did not stop.
She had told him not to. Sensitivity edged toward too much and she rode it anyway, shaking, a second climb already starting because he kept that same pressure and added two fingers only along the outside, stroking the soaked skin beside her hole, never in.
She could have asked. She did not. The rule held.
The second orgasm took her harder. Pussy clenching on nothing. Wet on his chin, his mouth, the edge of the machine. She pulled his hair and he groaned into her cunt and kept licking until she tapped his shoulder twice, sharp.
He stopped at once. Rested his forehead on her inner thigh, breathing like he had been underwater. His cock stood out of his shorts, wet from her mouth, ignored.
Mara sat there naked and dripping on her own washer, 41 years old, looking down at a 23 year old with her cum on his lips.
She laughed once, wrecked and surprised at herself.
“Towel.”
He handed her one. She cleaned his mouth first, then the inside of her thighs, then the smear she had left on his stomach. Her lipstick from the listing photos had transferred there in a pink blur. She touched it with her thumb and left it.
“You didn’t finish,” she said.
“You told me not to put it in you. I can wait.”
She slid off the washer onto unsteady feet and pulled the dress up without the zipper. It hung crooked. She did not fix it. She kissed him and tasted herself, deep and unapologetic, her hand resting on his chest not his cock.
“I want you in me,” she said against his mouth. “Not today. Tomorrow. Same room or the pool steps. I’ll tell you when you walk in.”
Wes swallowed. “I’ll wait for the text.”
“You’ll get it.” She zipped the dress halfway, enough for the walk through the house. “Go out the side. If the neighbors are in their yard I don’t care. I’m done pretending this is about a filter.”
He tucked himself away with a grimace that almost made her change the rule. She did not. She opened the door onto late Friday light. Heat rolled in. He paused on the threshold.
“Mara.”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?”
She thought about the photographs already sitting in some agent’s inbox. The marriage on paper. The ache between her legs that his tongue had not quite settled.
“I’m better than all right,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
She shut him out. She locked the side door this time and leaned against it with her forehead on the wood and her pussy still throbbing, and she whispered the next permission into the empty room so she would not lose her nerve overnight.
Tomorrow he could put it in her.
Saturday afternoon the heat sat on the water like a lid.
Mara was already on the top step when his truck door shut.
Not the white suit. A dark two-piece this time, bottoms tied at the hips with strings she could pull with two fingers.
She had chosen it in the bedroom knowing exactly what the knots were for.
Forty-one years old, thighs in the warm shallows, the sun putting a bright line along the tops of her breasts.
She watched Wes come through the gate and felt her pussy tighten around nothing, still sensitive from his mouth the day before.
“Lock it,” she said.
He locked the gate. He locked the slider from the inside when she pointed. Then he stood at the edge of the steps with his shirt already off and waited.
“Same rules,” Mara said. “You ask. I answer. Today the answer is yes. You put your cock in me. Slow first. You last. When I tell you to pull out, you pull out.”
“Where do you want it when I finish.”
“On the tile. Not in me. Not today.” She held his eyes. “Ask anyway.”
“Can I fuck you.”
“Yes.”
He came down a step. Water climbed his calves, then his knees.
Mara reached for the strings at her hips and pulled.
The bottoms loosened. She hooked them aside instead of taking them off, a filthy little shelf of wet fabric, and the sun hit the dark wet of her pussy without apology.
She took his hand and put it there so he would feel how ready she was before he did anything else.
“I’m sure,” she said, because his face still asked. “I’ve been sure since the washer. Come here.”
Wes stepped between her thighs. The water came up to the middle of their legs and lapped whenever either of them moved.
She freed him from his shorts and stroked him once, twice, spreading the wetness from her own cunt over the head of his cock.
Thick. Hot. He felt bigger in the daylight than he had on her tongue.
She lined him up herself, the blunt press of him against her hole, and breathed out.
“Slow.”
He pushed in slow.
The stretch pulled a sound out of her she did not try to swallow.
Weeks—months—longer than that since anything had opened her like this.
Wet as she was, he still had to work for the first inches.
Water slapped the steps. His hands bracketed her hips.
She watched his cock sink into her, watched her own body take him, and the sight made her clench so hard he groaned.
“That’s it. That’s all of it. Hold.”
He held. Buried. His forehead dropped to hers.
Mara felt him throb inside her and felt her own pulse answer around him.
Chlorine and skin and the coconut oil she had put on her shoulders that morning.
Sun on her closed eyelids. The tile under her ass hot enough to sting.
She rolled her hips a degree and the water moved around them like it was in on it.
“Now you can move,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare rush it.”
He fucked her the way she had asked. Long, measured strokes that dragged every inch out and gave it back.
The water made it quieter and wetter at once, a soft splash at the bottom of each thrust.
Mara hooked one thigh over his hip and used the step for leverage.
Her tits bounced against his chest. The swimsuit top stayed on, soaked dark, nipples visible through it, and she liked that small remaining piece of decent while he was in her to the root.
“Look at me.”
He looked. Twenty-three years old, jaw tight with the effort of lasting, eyes gone dark.
She let him see what he was doing to a 41 year old woman in her own pool in the middle of the afternoon.